The Reluctant Lark (2 page)

Sheena shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. I just had an idea I’d seen him before. I thought perhaps he might be a fan of Irish folk music and I might have seen him at one of my concerts or perhaps at one of the parties afterward.”

Barbara’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Really, where?”

“Chicago,” Sheena answered quietly. She wondered if the girl would think she’d gone completely mad if she mentioned that she’d also seen Challon in Miami and San Francisco as well.

“You must be mistaken,” Barbara O’Daniels said positively, “I’m sure I’d know if he was interested in folk concerts. Daddy is one of the foremost concert promoters in New York, and I’m certain he would have mentioned it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Sheena said slowly. “I must have been mistaken. It was probably someone who resembled him.”

“That would be practically impossible,” Barbara said, giving Sheena an impish grin. “There’s no one who looks like Rand Challon. The man positively oozes sex appeal. Just watch my gorgeous stepmother hanging on his every word.”

Sheena noticed for the first time that the woman standing talking to Challon was indeed her hostess,
Bridget O’Daniels, and she could see why Barbara’s voice was tinged with cynicism. Bridget O’Daniels’s chatter appeared to be electric in vivacity while Challon’s response seemed to be amused indulgence.

If Challon was the high-powered tycoon that Barbara described, he must also be something of a sportsman, Sheena decided. In his early thirties, the man’s deep tan and muscular body were evidence of a vigorous outdoor life. His thick, curly hair must have been brown at one time, but it was now sun bleached to a tawny shade between gold and bronze. His features were too blunt and rough-hewn for conventional good looks, but they had a power and rugged attraction that was obviously wildly pleasing to the besotted Bridget. The tailoring of his pale beige business suit and vest was both faultless and expensive.

The object of Sheena’s curiosity looked up suddenly, as if conscious of her perusal of him, and met her eyes. Sheena felt an electric shock surge through her that was startling in its intensity. His eyes were a clear amber gold and had the piercing hunger of a stalking lion. For a moment she felt absurdly as if she were caught, captured, held in that glance like a helpless gazelle in the paws of the lion of her mental simile.

There was no surprise in his eyes as they held hers. It was almost as if he had been waiting for this moment of realization and recognition. Sheena felt a tingle of fear run down her spine at the bold, possessive sureness in that stare, but for some reason she found it impossible to look away.

Then arching a brow and smiling mockingly, Challon lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Sheena’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as she hurriedly looked away from his arrogantly knowing expression. What had possessed her to be caught gawking like a schoolgirl at her first dance? There had been both tolerant amusement and a teasing challenge in that mocking gesture before she forced herself to look away.

It was quite clear that the man was used to the effect that his virile magnetism had on women, she thought vexedly. Well, she would be most careful to keep from increasing that egotistical self-confidence.

Barbara O’Daniels had observed the exchange with bright, curious eyes. “Perhaps he does recognize you,” she said. “You know you’ve really become quite well-known over here since you started touring.” Then, realizing that she might have committed a faux pas, she added hurriedly, “not that you weren’t already famous, of course. All of Europe knew you as ‘Ireland’s Mournful Dove.’ It’s just that Daddy says that a performer can’t really consider herself an international star until she’s accepted by American audiences.”

“I’m sure your father is right,” Sheena said soothingly. “I don’t see why my uncle would have arranged this tour if he didn’t agree with him.”

“Thanks heavens you’re not one of those temperamental artistic types,” Barbara said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Daddy would have been perfectly furious with me if I’d offended you. Tonight’s concert was a tremendous success, and the one tomorrow is sure to be a sellout. He thinks you’re absolutely super.”

“Your father has been very kind to me. I’m glad that I didn’t disappoint him.”

“No chance,” Barbara said. “You’re really good. That passionate, husky little voice of yours could be sexy as hell if you’d sing something besides those gloomy tearjerkers.” Then, abruptly realizing what she’d said, she grinned sheepishly. “Oh, Lord, I’ve done it again. I guess you’ve noticed that diplomacy isn’t one of my principal attributes.”

“I’ve noticed,” Sheena said, a ghost of a twinkle in her dark eyes.

“It’s just that I’m more into rock than folk songs at the moment,” Barbara said lamely. She was obviously uncomfortable, and her glance was ricocheting around the room in search of an escape route. Her face lit up as she spied Sean Reilly across the room. “There’s that
dishy red-haired assistant of your uncle’s. I think I’ll just go over and extend a little seductive American hospitality.” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. “Unless I’m poaching on your preserves?”

“What?” Sheena was startled. “No, of course not.” She had never thought of Sean in that way. He was just her uncle’s assistant, an extension of that comforting presence that protected and pampered her. Following Barbara’s gaze to the corner of the room where Sean stood chatting with the smooth, easy courtesy that she’d grown accustomed to, she realized that he was very attractive. His auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and tall, sturdy body were doubtlessly very appealing. “We’re just friends.”

“Good,” Barbara said with satisfaction. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, a-hunting I will go.” She disappeared into the crowd.

Sheena stared after her for a moment, feeling oddly lonely in the crowded and smoky room. It was almost suffocatingly hot, and she was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Surely she’d done her duty for the evening and could go back to the hotel. It seemed that she’d been introduced to hundreds of people, and her smile felt as if it were frozen on her face. She was just making her way across the room to ask Sean if he knew of her uncle’s whereabouts, when she felt a hand on her arm.

“Come on, little dove,” a deep, masculine voice murmured in her ear. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

She had never heard that voice in her life before, but she didn’t have to glance up at that bold, rough-hewn face to realize to whom it belonged. Ignoring her gasp of protest, Challon propelled her across the room toward the french doors that led to the penthouse terrace.

As he opened the door and pushed her out ahead of him, the only protest she could think to utter was a weak “But it’s raining outside!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said grimly. “You won’t melt in the real world, despite what your uncle tells you.”
Rand Challon closed the glass doors behind them with a sharp click that had an ominously final sound to it. He then swept her a little to the side, where the overhanging eaves sheltered them from the steadily falling rain.

She looked up at him, trepidation gradually being replaced by indignation. The arrogance of the man, sweeping her from the room like a pirate with booty! “You may enjoy standing in the rain, but I do not, Mr. Challon,” she said icily. “If you’ll kindly release my arm, I’d like to return to the party.”

“The hell you would,” he returned with blunt coolness. “I saw your face just now. There’s nothing that would please you less than going back to that high-pressured hothouse in there.”

“You’re very sure of your powers of perception,” she said caustically. “What makes you think that you can read a perfect stranger with such ease?”

“Do you know that you have practically no accent at all until something upsets you?” he asked absently. “Though, of course, your mother was American, wasn’t she?”

Sheena felt a jolt of surprise, and her eyes widened. “How did you know my mother was American?”

His smile was a flash of warm sunlight in the bronze darkness of his face. “There’s not much that I don’t know about you, little dove. We’re far from being strangers. I think you realized that tonight, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sheena said, her dark eyes wary.

“I think you do,” he said. “I believe you first discovered that I was following you in Miami.”

“San Francisco,” she corrected, her head whirling in confusion at the bewildering statement. “Following?” she asked faintly. “I thought it a mere coincidence. I had no idea that I had such an ardent fan.”

He shook his head. “I was at your first concert in Houston, and I’ve been at every one since, but I can’t say that I’m a fan.” He grinned ruefully. “To be honest,
I hate your performances with a passion.” His face lit with amusement as she raised her chin haughtily, her dark eyes blazing with outrage and hurt. “Just settle down, little dove,” he went on soothingly. “It’s simply that I’ve never believed in attending funerals, even with a lovely thing like you as chief mourner. I have a passion for life and the living, not for death.”

“If you’re quite finished insulting me, I’ll leave you now,” Sheena said, her voice shaking with rage. “By the way, Mr. Challon, I couldn’t care less what you have a passion for!”

“You will, dove. I assure you that I intend to make you conversant with all of my passions.” He smiled gently. “As for leaving me, I’ll let you go in a few minutes, at least for a time. I’m not trying to cage you at present, little bird. I just thought that it was time I made my first approach. I could see that you were getting a bit uneasy when you finally realized that I was on your trail.”

“You’re absolutely crazy,” she sputtered. “They ought to lock you up and throw away the key. You can’t follow someone around just because it amuses you to do so.”

His grin widened in frank enjoyment as he looked down at her furious face. “When you’re as rich as I am, you’re not called crazy, just eccentric, sweetheart. And you’ll find out that I can do pretty well as I please.”

“Not with me you can’t! Besides, why would anyone want to follow a total stranger around the country?”

He smiled lazily. “I’m tempted to tell you, but I don’t think you’re ready for it. Let’s just say that I’m doing some very important reconnoitering before I launch my offensive. I knew after your second concert that I was going to have a hell of a battle on my hands, and I took pains to make sure that I had all the ammunition needed to fight it.”

“Battle?” she asked dazedly. “What battle?”

“Not now, love,” he said softly, his eyes glowing amber gold. “You wouldn’t understand at the moment.” Gently he cupped her cheek in his hard, warm palm.
“Let’s just say I’m planning on turning my mournful dove into a lark.”

“You’re completely mad,” she whispered. She was suddenly acutely conscious of Challon’s vibrant nearness, the pulse that was beating in his strong bronzed throat, the heady scent of warm male flesh mixed with the clean odor of soap. Standing isolated between the curtain of gently falling rain and the barrier that the glass french doors formed between the two of them and the noisy party a few feet away, it was almost as if they were in a private world of their own.

Sheena shook her head to clear it. Was she as insane as he was? Why was she feeling this melting, boneless warmth in her every limb? Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer for no better reason than that golden, intimate look, which seemed to wrap her tenderly yet securely in its velvet web.

“God, but you’re a temptation, sweetheart,” Challon said thickly, his eyes accurately reading and interpreting the telltale glow in her jet black eyes. “If I hadn’t promised myself that I’d try patience and gentleness first, I’d whisk you out of here and take you home with me.”

She could feel her cheeks turn warm, and she looked away hastily. “It might not be entirely your decision to make,” she said tartly, lifting her chin haughtily. “I’m not accustomed to letting strange men carry me home like some sort of trophy.”

Challon chuckled, his lean cheeks creased with amusement. “Yes, I know, little dove. I’m going to have to exert all my expertise to overcome that convent upbringing.”

“How did you …?” she started, then trailed off helplessly. Was there nothing the man didn’t know about her?

“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “are you doing ‘Rory’s Song’ tomorrow night?”

She felt a little ripple of shock. “Of course I’m doing it,” she said. “Not that it concerns you.”

“Everything you do concerns me, Sheena,” Challon said quietly. “But I admit that this particular decision comes as no surprise to me. It fits the pattern quite neatly with what I’ve observed in the past three months. Don’t you ever question any edicts issued by your dear uncle? Do you really enjoy being a lovely mindless puppet?”

“Puppet!” she exclaimed, furious. “You have no idea at all of what you’re saying. My uncle loves me, and he only does what’s best for me.”

“Would a man who loves you dress you in mourning black and send you up on stage in front of thousands of people to rip your soul to shreds?” Challon asked grimly.

“It’s not like that!”

“Oh, isn’t it? Then what is it like, Sheena? Tell me what you feel when you’re out there in front of that mob who only want to taste your tears and touch your agony.”

Her huge dark eyes misted. “Please,” she pleaded huskily. “I don’t want to talk about it. Won’t you just go away?”

He shook his head, his golden eyes tender. “Never again, little dove. There’s always pain before healing; you’re wounded, and I want to be there to kiss it better.”

“Sheena, what are you doing out here?” Sean Reilly’s voice, unusually sharp, cut through that breathlessly intimate moment. He closed the french doors behind him and approached with his usual silent grace. “It’s pouring, and you know how bad the dampness is for your throat.” He whipped off his tweed jacket and draped it around her solicitously, the movement deftly separating her from Challon.

Challon observed the ploy with lazy amusement. “It’s my fault, Reilly,” he said mockingly. “I assured her that she wouldn’t melt. It seems that I stand corrected.”

Reilly shot the older man an annoyed glance before turning to Sheena and smiling. “It’s a crazy, wild girl
you are,” he scolded gently. “Come along inside, and I’ll get you a drink to ward off a chill.”